


In the Hands of the King

by baranduin



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feverish Frodo post-Quest in Minas Tirith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Hands of the King

**Author's Note:**

> Written around 2003.

Frodo lay cradled in Eowyn’s arms, his head drooping against her shoulder, his body draped limply across her lap. He did not sleep; he was unconscious. Eowyn stroked his hot brow with a cool cloth dampened with essence of spearmint, murmuring a soothing melody under her breath. When the door opened, she looked up and stilled her song as Aragorn came close and knelt by the bed, his hands braced on his thighs.

“How long has he lain this way, my lady?” he asked, his forehead drawn in distress and his eyes softened with the particular compassion that only shone when he looked on the Ringbearer.

“He seemed well enough at supper and ate heartily, but I saw he excused himself and left Merethrond before the others had even finished their meal. I thought perhaps he might be in need. He ...” Eowyn’s voice broke, just once, and then she continued with her head held high. “His fever has returned, the poor thing. Oh, Aragorn, I am glad you have come. I do not know what to do for him.”

Aragorn smiled. “But I do.” His smile faded and the light dimmed in his eyes. “As much as anyone does,” he murmured. “Would that it could be enough to draw all the poison from him once and for all.”

Aragorn’s back stiffened, his spine straightening, when Eowyn spoke again, this time in a soft voice braced with steel. “Then do what you can, which is a great deal indeed. Did you not heal me and Faramir ... and Frodo’s kinsman as well?”

When Aragorn raised his head and met Eowyn’s gaze, the steel had somehow gathered itself from the thin air of her spoken words and filled her eyes; he could do naught but obey her. He raised his hand and settled his palm against Frodo’s forehead, trembling from the contact.

_So much suffering_. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his head and whispered in Frodo’s ear, “Sleep, my dearest friend. You need not wander in these fevered dreams. Let the Shadow depart a while, and sleep. They have no power over you now. Sleep, Frodo.”

Aragorn straightened and sat back on his haunches. Neither he nor Eowyn spoke again, but they sat long into the night, bathing Frodo’s forehead at times until finally his fever departed and he passed into peaceful sleep, his skin cool to the touch.

_Healed,_ thought Eowyn. _It is true what the goodwives said about the hands of the King._

_For this time,_ Aragorn thought.


End file.
